He lowered his whip, and they rode on in silence. Andrew’s dreamy, melancholy eyes had no further charm for Miss Marchon. He could not be drawn into a flirtation, be it ever so mild, so, as they joined the rest of the party she gradually drew away from him, and attached herself to the side of the governor of the state, who was a widower, and a noted gallant. Her bright beauty soon captivated him, and before long she had given him her views of their host.
“He is a boor; a perfect numskull. He does not know enough to compliment any lady but his wife, and his ravings about her are ridiculous in the extreme.”
“Do you mean to say that he has been in your charming society for a whole hour; has looked into those glorious eyes; has gazed upon those tempting lips; and yet has been so ungallant as not to have seemed to appreciate so much loveliness, and his own good fortune in being near it?” inquired the governor, bending from his saddle to touch lightly with his gloved hand the damask cheek of his companion.
“Even so,” she replied, giving him a bewitching smile.
“Then he is indeed all that you have called him and a great deal more. He is wanting in courtesy, but then you must excuse him on the plea of his not having been in society of late. He has withdrawn from the world so completely since that dreadful accident to his brother, of which he was an eye-witness, and which for a time ’tis said unbalanced his mind so that he has acted strangely ever since. His wife was also his brother’s, you no doubt know?”
“No, indeed. This is news,” replied Miss Marchon, eagerly, woman-like, scenting a romance. “Do tell me all about it, dear governor. I know very little regarding them except what Mrs. Lewis, where I am visiting, has told me. She said that the Willings were people a little eccentric, but it would not do to slight them in any way, as they are immensely wealthy, and their ancestors were among the bluest blood of England’s peers, and that the present Mrs. Willing is a titled English lady, who dropped her title upon marrying an American.”
“All of which is very true,” rejoined the governor, “but what I shall tell you borders on the romantic. Roger and Andrew Willing were twin brothers, and as unlike as you can imagine. I knew them both from childhood. Roger was one of the finest fellows I ever knew. Jolly, full of jokes, and always ready for a good time. He had the handsomest blue eyes I ever saw, excepting, of course, these at my side.”
Miss Marchon was one of the few women who can blush conveniently and at just the right time. A delicious rosy wave of color dyed her cheeks, and she laughingly tapped her admirer with her whip. “Go on, go on, you flatterer,” she cried, “I am becoming deeply interested. I wish I might have known this Roger Willing whose picture you sketch so charmingly.”
“You can see his portrait in the large gallery, Miss Marchon, taken in the heyday of his youth, but it does not do him justice. Well, as I was saying, he was a fellow beloved by everybody, and was so different from his twin brother, who was always as you see him now; moody, quiet, and sadly wanting in gallantry toward the fair sex, and if I am not mistaken, a little jealous of his more popular brother. Then when Roger was in his twenty-second year, just when life looked the fairest to him, he lost his eyesight in a powder explosion during a Fourth of July celebration in New York.”
“How very sad!” exclaimed Miss Marchon. “Those beautiful eyes! It must have been a serious affliction to him.”